Comin' Thro' the Rye (Mathers)/Seed Time/Chapter 15
CHAPTER XV.
Is crimson on thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death's pale flag is not advanced there."
It is three o'clock on Saturday afternoon, and I am making my toilette preparatory to setting out for the parsonage. I would rather be playing cricket, but Mr. Russell, after giving us a glorious week, has gone away again; however, he is coming back, and the sooner the better, say I. Meanwhile, let me arrange my clean and crackling gown, as gracefully as the inequalities of my form permit, and try and persuade my curly thick hair to lie flat.
"Good-bye, Mary," I say, putting my head in at the class-room door, where she sits illuminating a text, "I'm going now."
I never did care about girls, or want to be great friends with any of them, but I like Mary.
The parsonage is only a few yards away; it is right before my eyes, as I walk along the bit of road that divides it from the school. As I lift the latch of the gate, and go through the old-fashioned, sweet-smelling garden, I give a long sigh of content, it is all so peaceful, so dainty, so still. There is a faint suspicion of magnolia in the hall, a scent of roses abroad; and when Mr. Frere himself comes out to greet me, I feel blessedly, delightedly, restfully happy.
"Run upstairs and take off your things, my dear," he says, and Mrs. Pim, his housekeeper, shows me the way.
Coming down again, I find that he has vanished, but she pushes open the door of a room on the left, and I enter.
It is low and wide, like our Silverbridge rooms, and it is orderly and prim as an old maid's parlour, with great formal bowls of flowers planted about it, and a stiff bean-pot set in the hearth-place. The windows are open, and, though it is September, the late roses nod in at the windows. A big, deep arm-chair is pulled up to one of them, with its back turned to me; approaching to seat myself in it, for a long course of upright chair backs has made me hanker very seriously after something easy, I see the crown of a dark smooth head resting against it. I am about to take a peep round the corner to see who it can be, when the occupant of the chair rises, stretches himself, and opens his mouth for a yawn, stopping midway as he descries me.
"I beg your pardon," he says, shutting his mouth with a snap, "I never heard you come in."
"You are Mr. Frere's nephew," I say, sitting down on the edge of a sofa, and looking at him, "why are you not out shooting?"
"I have been out all the morning How do you know I am Mr. Frere's nephew?"
"There is no one in Charteris," I say, shaking my head; "no one ever comes here, except to see the girls, or Miss Tyburn, or Mr. Russell."
"And are you one of the girls."
"Of course."
"The biggest of them?"
"Oh no! but there are much smaller ones than me. Do you think me so very little? At home, at Silverbridge, you know, they always thought me so leggy."
"You will shoot up some day," he says, passing his hand over his moustache, "perhaps be a giantess, who knows? And do you really live at Silverbridge?"
"Yes. I suppose you have heard a good deal about it from Mr. Frere?"
"I was born there," he says.
"But you have not been there lately?"
"I lived there until fifteen years ago. Have you never been to The Towers?"
"Yes, I have been there," I say slowly, remembering certain stolen afternoons spent under the shadow of the oaks in the grand old park; "and that is yours?"
"Yes, it is mine. My father died in Rome last year."
"I don't think that Jack and I ever knew who it was that owned The Towers, not that we should ever have been any the wiser if we had heard the name."
"No. I went away before you were born."
"And yet you cannot be very old," I say, lifting my eyes to the dark, proud, somewhat worn face, that is as far removed from mere effeminate beauty as it is from ordinary everyday locks.
"Old enough!" he says, with something very like a sigh; "I am thirty years old!"
"More than double my age," I say soberly. "Oh! it seems a great deal; but then you must have seen so much, been all about the world; it must be nice to have had experience."
"I would give it all," he says, looking into my eager face, "to have your youth and freshness and belief."
"Belief!" I repeat, "what is that?"
"I can hardly tell you," be says, "for you would not understand. Do you not look forward to having your life all your own way. meeting with the men and women you think heroic, having your ups and downs certainly, but also your rewards and pleasantnesses? I did when I was your age."
"And why should I not?" I ask, puzzled. "Are all our hopes of future happiness illusions? I should hate to think that."
"Do not think it then," he says, standing up with a quick, impatient shake of the shoulders; "let us go out into the garden. By the way, what am I to call you, little madam?"
"Helen Adair," I say, laughing; "at home they call me Nell."
"Then I shall call you Nell, too," he says promptly. "I wonder where my uncle is?"
He goes to a door leading into a smaller inner room, that is, I think, Mr. Frere's study, but he is not there.
"Sent for to some old woman who thinks she is dying, I suppose," says his nephew. "He is always being imposed upon."
We go out into the kitchen garden, which is not close locked as ours at home, but open to all comers; and since there are no little thieves here to make busy work among the fruit, there is plenty and to spare.
"You are as good as a pair of steps," I say, watching him with much interest gathering the pears that grow on the sunny side of the wall; "how useful you would have been at Silverbridge!" He gives me a satin smooth Marie Louise. How I wish Jack was here!
"And of what use should I have been?"
"You could have jumped the wall and thrown the fruit over to us."
"And supposing it was breakable?"
"We should not have minded," I say, laughing. "Have you a first-rate kitchen garden at The Towers?"
"We used to have; I don't know whether the raspberry and gooseberry bushes have grown, like me, aged."
"I do so love gooseberries," I say, looking fondly at the bare bushes we are passing; "grapes never came up to them in my estimation."
"Then when I am at The Towers will you come and help strip my bushes?"
"That I will," I say heartily, "only I am afraid that if you once let me into your garden you will never get any dessert."
I shall not want any for a long time; I am not going there for three years, except for a day or two to arrange matters."
"Three years!" I say blankly. "Oh dear! I shall be past gooseberries by the time you come back!"
"There will be the peaches?"
"Yes, but they will never taste the same, you know, after I am grown up. Are you going very far?"
"To India, America, Siberia, Australia, China, and—I forget the names of the places almost."
"It is a pity," I say, shaking my head, "a very great pity! You should do a little at a time. You cannot enjoy all that at once! Why, when we went to Periwinkle-by-the-Sea we were worn out with the novelties. We felt they were almost too much!"
"But supposing," he says, with a queer look upon his face, "that you wanted to be worn out, wanted to tire yourself, what then?"
"I never felt like that," I say thoughtfully, "so I cannot tell."
"You have a blessedly blank memory, child," he says; "would to God I had!"
"My master is expecting you," says Mrs. Pim, appearing suddenly before us, so we go in and have dinner; a cool, quiet repast, that is very unlike the one of which I partook at one o'clock to-day. I think Mr. Frere is fond of this nephew; Paul, he calls him, his other name, I find, is Vasher. We are out in the garden again by seven o'clock—at so primitive an hour does Mr. Frere dine—and smelling at the roses, the carnations, and those sweet last gifts that summer leaves behind when she sweeps her bright skirts away to make room for autumn, and I have gathered me a nosegay at Mr. Frere's request, and am tying it together with a wisp of dry grass. We have wandered to the gate that gives on the road, and while Mr. Vasher smokes his cigar, and Mr. Frere talks from time to time, we watch the cows go past, making all the air "like the sweet south, that breathes upon a bank of violets," and half a dozen labourers, and a tipsy man; for, strange to say, even in this out of the world corner, people are as much inclined to be wicked as anywhere else. Mr. Frere has his eyes fixed upon the portals of the shining city, through which the sun seems to have only just passed; his face is grave; perhaps he is thinking of the gold and silver and jewels of his youth that are stored away there, to be given back to him by God's hand maybe, when this life is over past. Mr. Vasher's face is so calm and still and indifferent as he leans over the gate, blowing a smoke wreath up into the clear blue azure above us, that I inly marvel whether he were not joking a while ago when he spoke as though the past had proved more bitter than sweet to him.
The sound of hoofs strikes sharply on my ears; looking up I see a horsewoman approaching at a foot pace, her head is bent, the reins are hanging loosely from her hand, her face is almost hidden. At my side I feel a sudden leap, a stir, and a hoarse voice, deep and shaken, says below its breath, "My God!" Turning, I see Paul Vasher's face convulsed by love, hate, scorn, longing, loathing . . . which is it of all these feelings that possesses and shakes him? I look at the girl, she is riding slowly by; she has not lifted her head or moved one hair's-breadth. I feel rather than hear the sigh of relief he gives (surely it is relief?) when she lifts her eyes, looks full in his face, then, it is all in a moment, the reins slip from her hands, she sways and falls headlong to the earth. She does not touch it though, for Paul Vasher has leapt the gate, has caught her in his arms, and is looking down on her with a strange expression as the groom hastily dismounts and catches his mistress's horse.
Bring her in!" says Mr. Frere, pale with alarm. (Are not old bachelors and old maids easily daunted?) And Paul brings her in, and lays her down in the big arm-chair, in which I found him sitting a few hours ago. I do not think she has fainted, but her eyes are shut, and she makes neither sigh nor moan, nor does she stir hand or foot. As I look her, I hold my breath for wonder at her. Well might Shakespeare have said of her, "for the poor rude world hath not her fellow." She is all white and gold, like a pure lily, and as tall; for though her little hands and feet might belong to a child, she is really of fair stature, and so softly, sensuously lovely at all points, in every dimple and curve of cheek, lip, chin, and body, that it is a feast of the eye to look upon her while—
The painter plays the spider, and hath woven
A golden mesh to entrap the hearts of men
Faster than gnats in cobwebs."
Once I look at Mr. Vasher, then back again at her, for the face fascinates it. I do not like it, but, oh! I love to look at what is rare and unusual; and is not this such a picture as a man might dream of and sigh after, all his life long, and never see? Mrs. Pim is trying to pour brandy down her throat, but the beautiful mouth does not unclose, the fast-set teeth do not unlock, and yet somehow she does not give me the idea of being an insensible woman. I am thinking this, when she opens her eyes with a long-drawn, shuddering sigh, and looks about her, first at one, then another! She does not see Paul, who is standing behind her.
"I hope you are better," says Mr. Frere, advancing, and looking at her very kindly. "We were afraid———"
"I thought," she says, glancing about with dilated sapphire blue eyes, "that I saw———"
Paul steps forward out of the shadow. "I am here," he says, quietly. "I hope you have received no hurt?"
I had thought these two were lovers, but they cannot be: his voice is as cold and indifferent as though he were speaking to Pim. She looks up at him, and her lips quiver, like a beautiful child that seeks love and is given a blow; under the look he winces and turns away. She is very young, not more than eighteen, I think; and somehow, down in my heart, though why or wherefore I cannot tell, I am sorry for her.
"My dear," says good Mr. Frere, "are you sure that you are quite recovered?"
'Quite," she says, standing up and giving him such a bright, winsome smile that the middle-aged man blushes up to his ears, pleased as any schoolboy. "I must have been very careless, for Dandy never gave me a fall before."
"It is fortunate we were at the gate," he says, "and that my nephew was able to be of some assistance."
"Your nephew!" she says, staring at him; "is Paul Vasher your nephew?"
"You know him?" exclaims Mr. Frere. "My dear boy, why did you not tell me so?"
"We have met before," she says, looking at Paul; "that is all."
"I beg your pardon," says Paul, coming forward. "Allow me, Miss Fleming, to introduce my uncle, Mr. Frere, to you. This young lady, sir, is Miss Fleming."
"Lady Flytton's niece?" asks Mr. Frere, as the girl lays her lovely slim hand in his; then we are near neighbours!"
"I have heard my aunt speak of you," she says, gently, "and we were coming to hear you preach to-morrow."
"And you know Paul?" continued Mr. Frere; "how very odd! I suppose you did not know he was in this part of the world?"
"I thought he was in Scotland."
"You said you were going to Scarbro'," says Paul, "you changed your mind?"
"Yes, like you. It is not a difficult thing to do, to change one's mind, is it?"
Their eyes met; ay, these two were hot lovers once, but what are they now?
"You have laid me under a great obligation, Mr. Vasher," she says, in her proud young voice. "Pray understand that I am grateful. Good night, Mr. Frere, and forgive me, if you can, for startling you so much."
"Good night! good night!" he says, and so with a hand-shake she goes, and the two men accompany her to the gate.
Now if Mr. Frere had possessed the most rudimental idea of his duty on this occasion, he would have stopped behind with me. Clearly he has about as much notion of being a gooseberry as a . cabbage; but my instinct is active enough if his is not, and a long course of sympathy with Alice and Charles has made me very tender-hearted on the subject of lovers; so as Mr. Frere passes the window with the two young people, I utter a dismal groan and call out to him that I have tumbled down and hurt myself very much. Back he comes in a twinkling and finds me nursing my leg on the floor, with a twisted ankle. "I tumbled over a footstool," I explain, "and will you assist me to the sofa?" He wants to call Mrs. Pim, and have it examined; but this I object to, giving it as my opinion that rest is all that is required.
"So odd," says the poor gentleman, as he brings me a book and some papers, "that there should be two accidents in one evening!"
On some pretext or another I keep him in the room for fully ten minutes; then he goes out into the garden after Paul.
I wonder if, when I am grown up and am quarrelling with my lover, any good Samaritan will take as much trouble to serve me as I have taken to serve those two who are standing down by the gate yonder, looking into each other's faces with such a different expression on each? So much I see as I hop nimbly to the window as soon as Mr. Frere's back is turned to me.